


The Invention of Fire

by Annwyd



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annwyd/pseuds/Annwyd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier wonders things he never bothered to think of before. One trainee in the Black Widow program helps. A rendezvous is arranged and carried out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invention of Fire

He wakes up in the dead of night with images hot behind his eyelids. He cannot stop thinking of how her quickness of her long pale fingers as they set and then disarmed the practice explosives, or the fluid motion of her limbs in mid-combat. But that is just a smokescreen. If he does stop thinking of those things, he'll remember what's really important. When he finished correcting her fighting stance, she almost failed to stop the small real smile from coming to her face. He didn't need to help her up from the mat after he threw her, but when he did, her hand grasped his with so much warmth. Before he left the room, she looked right at him, and there was a light in her blue eyes like he can't ever remember seeing before. It felt like returning to somewhere he'd forgotten. And there are so many things he has forgotten. They shouldn't be important, he knows, but she almost makes him feel as if they are.

The Winter Soldier cannot dismiss the redheaded woman from his mind.

He gets up from his spare hard bed and, without thinking about it, makes his way to the small bathroom adjoining; against all better judgment, he finds himself staring at the little mirror above the sink. He doesn't know who the man looking back at him is. He never has. It's not important. He does what they tell him and that is all. But now he lifts his left hand and touches the mirror with a click of metal against glass, and he thinks of skin on skin, of her hand in his.

He touches his own reflection with a hand that isn't really his any more than this life is, and he whispers her name instead. "Natalia Romanova." That much he knows.

* * *

What he does not know is when he'll see her next. Though his Department X handlers want him to approach those he trains in the Red Room with cool competence and authority, they rarely give him a glimpse of the schedule or any other information that would let him _truly_ be in charge. It's not his place to know things like that. He doesn't need to truly be in charge. He follows orders as much as his trainees do; he knows what he needs to know and no more. That has never bothered him. It doesn't bother him at all, until he has to wait for two days to spar with her again.

She matches his moves better this time. She thinks up better counters. He is glad, he is glad to see her live and grow like that, but he is also afraid it means he will stop seeing her soon.

"That one," he says in his calmest tones to the handler watching them from the corner today. He keeps his real feelings, bright hot and irrational as they are, safely inside, and for the first time he wonders if that is a thing he had practice with before, in another life. "The fast and clever one with red hair."

"Romanova," says the man.

"I don't care. I'm saying she will be valuable." He's not lying. Not really. He is devoted to the program and really does wish for them to make use of their most valuable assets, of which Natalia Romanova most certainly is one. "Do whatever you want with the others, but let me teach that woman English. It will be a good investment."

It's just that he also wishes to see more of her. He also wishes to watch the shape of her lips around the phrases he passes on to her.

"We'll take that under advisement. You're dismissed, Winter Soldier. Regroup on the lower level in twenty minutes."

_Under advisement_ could mean anything. They could keep him from ever seeing her again if they feel like it. He does not begrudge his superiors that choice if they make it--he cannot begrudge them any choices they make--but he fears the possibility. His heart feels like it has a small, stubborn flame in it, urging him on. So he passes by Natalia Romanova before he leaves the training grounds. He touches her shoulder. "You improved today. I'll go harder on you tomorrow."

"I welcome it," she says with more boldness than she has when addressing anyone else.

He does not change his calm tone, then, as he gives her the name of a small hotel on the side streets of the city. "Tonight. Quarter to eleven."

It is an impulsive decision he makes. He wonders if he is the kind of man who makes impulsive decisions.

* * *

It is only half past ten when she arrives. She's cloaked and hooded, but he recognizes the self-possessed way she carries herself. He has been trained to recognize subtle things about people, but that's not why he recognizes her. He just does.

He inclines his head and vanishes into the hallway to find his room. She hesitates for only a second, then follows. When they enter, she is the one who closes the door behind them, though she does not lock it.

They stand in silence, a few feet away from each other, as he takes off his gloves. Finally, she lowers her hood. He wants to tell her she is beautiful, but that would be going too far and too fast.

"Have I passed your test, comrade?" she asks him. "Or have I failed?"

He made a mistake. He didn't practice, didn't think of things he could say to her now that she's here with him. He just wanted to be alone with her. Now he is, she's here, and he's totally mute. He tries to breathe. It's difficult.

"This is a test," she says, "isn't it?" She is almost smiling, but there's still a little worry in her eyes. "I am not ready for a secret mission yet. And there is no other reason the Winter Soldier would call me here."

He opens his mouth to tell her what the Winter Soldier really thinks of her. What comes out is only this: "I like you." Stupid. He sounds stupid.

"You aren't acting under orders from our superiors," she says, with only a little bit of surprise in her voice. That real smile is starting to touch her lips now. He wants to touch her lips too, with his own.

He shakes his head. "You can leave if you want, Natalia. Don't put yourself at risk for me."

"This could still be a test," she says. "I hope it is not." Her hand lifts, and his mind races through two dozen ways to block it and disable her while she touches his cheek. He lets them all go. "I have wanted you since I laid eyes on you." She quickly pulls her hand away. He misses it immediately, and without thinking he reaches to catch hold of it with his own right hand. That small, stubborn flame is back in his heart.

"I want to be with you," he says. "You're incredible, I want to spend more time with you--" She laughs. His stomach flips over ten times. He tries to remember what to do when a beautiful woman laughs like that, but it's not part of his training, and he remembers nothing else. "Natalia," he says.

"You say my name like I'm a real person," she says, suddenly bright-eyed.

"You're the realest person I've met here," he says.

There is fire in her eyes then, and before he can stop marveling at it, she leans in to kiss him. Her mouth is very confident on his, but her fingers tremble in his grasp. He kisses back as if that could make it better, and somehow it does.

When he finally pulls back from her, he remembers that he had something to tell her. "You're beautiful," he begins, but he's not even finished saying it when her hands go for the buttons of his coat. "So soon?"

"Do you think we have much time here?"

She's right. He scrambles for the ties of her cloak himself. Twenty seconds pass by--her shirt hits the wall, snags on a windowsill. Fifty seconds, and his pants end up flung onto the doorknob of the room.

She pauses, then, and remembers to lock the door.

Standing there in his underwear, watching her in hers, he swallows back a warning that he isn't sure if he's done this before. He just doesn't know, but he wants to be confident for her. So instead of admitting anything like that, he takes hold of her hands to draw her to the bed.

Her right hand in his left jumps a little. "Cold," she murmurs.

"But think of what it can do," he tries to tease, but she looks at him with those bright eyes and just smiles.

"You are blushing, Winter Soldier," she says. "What kind of lover does a man still blushing at this late point make?"

He stills the blood in his cheeks and wills it away so he can smile at her with the same boldness she has. "Why don't you find out?"

She has no objections; she kisses him again. This time, when she leans into his arms, he feels almost everything about her against his bare chest. He lets go of her hands to undo the clasps of her bra and thanks whatever power out there he might have once believed in that he finds them and neatly opens them on the first try. That leaves the bra in his hand; he tosses it aside and hopes it doesn't land somewhere too difficult to bring it back down from.

She hooks her slender fingers into his briefs and pulls them down; he stumbles back, lands on the bed, pulls his underwear the rest of the way off and throws it to the side.

He should be able to steady himself more quickly. He has all that training. He is lethal and feared. But the world is still whirling around him when he feels the bed bounce from her settling down on it next to him. She's naked now. The world won't stabilize.

"You're very handsome," she says, and he doesn't have a tiny flame in his chest any longer. There's just a bonfire where his heart should be, where there's been ice for the past few years. Ice was satisfactory. He did his job just fine with a cold heart.

With the heat in him, he sits up and pulls her close. He tips his head against hers, then lowers it to kiss her throat, her shoulders, and lower still. Her fingers resting on his upper back go tense as he takes one breast into his mouth and teases at her with his teeth. It spurs him on, the way her breath gives way to shivering gasps. He wants to hear more pleasure from her. When did he start wanting things like that?

Then, decisively, her hands move down and settle on his waist. He thinks of sparring with her, of the way they are both most human when they move together, and he decides that now is not the time to rest in her arms. There might never be a time for resting like that. Instead, he lightly escapes her grasp, swiftly takes hold of her, and throws her flat against the bed. She gasps, and he loves the sound.

Her hair fans out around her face like firelight, but her eyes burn brighter still. "What will you do with me?" She doesn't try to get back up; she only pretends not to smile. For once, she pretends poorly.

"Make you cry out louder than that." He is confident when she looks at him like that. But then, he has never had a reason not to be confident. Has he? He won't think about that. He pushes her thighs apart and leans down to kiss inside them. He wants to leave marks. He nearly leaves marks, his teeth against her skin--

"Don't," she says softly. "Someone may notice. I want to do this again."

He reminds himself of that. "I know," he says, so while she shivers, he leans up between her legs and hopes instinct alone will give him a good enough idea of where to put his lips and tongue. She's wet already against his mouth. He traces the tip of his tongue everywhere, listening for her tiny moans as if he's tracking a target. Her hand suddenly grasping his hair is unexpected, but it's a valuable clue, so he keeps going at her at that point, until--

"Stop. Enough." Her voice trembles.

He pulls away, shaking her hand out of his hair. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want it to be over so soon," she says in mild tones. Her gaze travels down from his face, over his chest and below, and before he can say anything more she's reaching for him, wrapping her hand around the base of his shaft. If he wasn't totally erect before, after the taste of her, the feel of her in his mouth, he is now. He has watched those fingers learn to do deadly things before, and now, suddenly unable to speak, he watches them explore him.

He lifts his eyes to meet hers. She's smiling again; there is something in her gaze of the gentlest and most delighted predator he has ever seen. With her free hand, she reaches for his chin and tips his head back down. "No," she says. "Aren't you the trainer here? Watch, and tell me how well I touch you."

She's teasing him. This is her revenge for him throwing her down earlier. He tries to still his breathing into an even pace, and he can't. The hand he guided onto the pins of grenades is all over his length.

"Well?"

He bites his lip until he can speak again. "You pass."

"It's going to be so good when I make you mine," she says.

He looks up, quickly. "No. I'll be taking you, Natalia. Don't forget that." Confident, he has to sound confident. He won't forgive himself if he's not the perfect man and lover for this woman.

She gives him the lightest pull. "Prove it!"

So he leans forward, covering her with his body--when she breathes, he feels her breasts brush up against his chest. "Yeah? Is that what you want?"

"I've said it already," she says. "I want you. I want--" She hesitates.

He touches her cheek, then brushes her hair away from her face. "Is there a problem?"

"I don't know your name," she says, and she looks at him expectantly.

He has no real answer to that. "Neither do I," he confesses.

"I see," she says, and in that instant some uncomfortable awareness prickles along his spine, and he thinks she might know more about him than he knows about himself.

He braces himself against the bed with his left arm. She glances to the side, her line of vision taking in the metal shine. "I'm not whole," he says. "Does it bother you?"

"You are more than enough man for me right now," she says as she looks back at him, and with one hand still on him and the other one grasping him from behind, she guides him to her. He follows; he leans down to kiss the soft skin of her throat, careful not to leave the marks he wants to, and as he does so he presses into her below.

She rewards him with her delighted sigh. Her hands move to rest on the small of his back and pin him to her. She's strong, and of course he knew it from training her, but he really realizes it now, with her arms around him.

He kisses her, and he moves inside her, almost unconsciously adjusting his motions to the timing of her pleased breaths. "Natalia..."

"You're being unfair." Is that humor in her voice, or wistfulness? "I can't call you by your name."

His mouth pressed against the line of her jaw, he smiles without apology.

After a time, her legs suddenly twine around his, and she holds him more tightly. "Let's stay here all night," she says. The same recklessness that he suppressed earlier has infected her. "Let's make love until it's light out, then run away where no one can find us."

He kisses her for a moment, but with those words tugging at his mind he can't quite lose himself in her. He pulls back, and he tries to clear his mind, even though she's beneath him and he's inside of her and--it's difficult, but he says, "You know we can't." He kisses her collarbone, dazed by the softness of her skin and the tense feel of toned muscle nearby, but not out of his wits.

"Someday--"

"We belong with the program. We belong _to_ the program."

She falls silent for a moment, then says quietly, "I know." But she arches her body beneath him and his mind finally disappears for a few seconds.

He's gasping when he comes back to himself. "A few hours--a few hours is fine. Let's make love for hours."

"A few hours isn't anywhere near enough." Her hands begin to wander away from their place at the small of his back. She traces her fingers up his spine, cups his right shoulder with one hand; with the other she investigates his left, curiously exploring where metal covers flesh.

"A few hours is all we have," he says, and he kisses her.

She turns her head a little away from his mouth, although she's still flushed with pleasure. "If we do it again you might be able to convince me that's enough."

He tries to think of what he's supposed to do now. He was never trained for this. He wasn't trained for love, but perhaps he can apply the training he does have to it. "There are other hotels. Next time I'll come in the window."

"Don't disappoint me," she says lightly.

Something about that simple phrase sends a worried pang through him. He doesn't want to disappoint her at all. He kisses her fiercely and moves his hips hard against hers, and in a few seconds he's startled to hear her laughing quietly into his ear.

"I don't think you'll disappoint me," she whispers.

"I wasn't worried I would," he lies, but something about the way she wraps her arms around him now genuinely reassures him. He wonders why, but only briefly. There's no Winter Soldier here and no representative of the Black Widow program, so he hardly needs to worry about meeting expectations anyway. There's only Natalia and the man in her arms, and he doesn't have to be anything but that.

She reaches up to take hold of his face and draw him back down for another kiss, and he gives in and kisses her as deeply as she wants. Below, he presses harder against her and into her, and she arches hard against him. She's trembling a little now, her breath coming short and fast against his mouth as she tugs his lips between her teeth.

He'd lose himself in her then, if he had any self to lose. He doesn't, so instead he just holds her beneath him, his mind fragmented by all these unfamiliar feelings and his heart on fire, while the two of them circle around a climax. Finally, almost reluctantly, they fall into it--her first, shuddering without restraint under his body, and him when her pleasure finally overwhelms him, his right hand tangled in her hair spread against the pillow.

Afterwards, when his heart has dwindled back to a small flame like on a candle instead of some kind of conflagration, she reaches out from beside him to take hold of his hand. They are both very tired. He wants to sleep at her side. He wishes he could. "What is it?" he asks.

"You said you'd teach me English," she says.

"You overheard," he says.

"I do that. Teach me something."

He glances to the side, at her face in the dim light. He discards trite thoughts like praise of her beauty, and instead he says, in English, "Let's do this again sometime."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a promise."

* * *

They spar the next day, and though they are both tired, covering up unusual exhaustion, she's gotten better still. Or perhaps it's that he's gotten worse. What's been lit in his heart isn't going out, and he wonders if he fought better with ice there instead.

At the end, when she lies gasping on the mat below him, he can't help but think of other ways he wants her to be crying out beneath him.

"I have a lot still to teach you," he says, but from the way she smiles, he thinks she might have things yet to teach him.


End file.
